BHKa 


LIBRARY    OF   THE    UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA 


LIBRARY    OF   THE   UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA 


^^^3v5^^^ 


LIBRARY    OF   THE    UNIVERSITY   OF    CALIFORNIA 

J 


i^^^^fm 


LIBRARY    OF   THE    UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA 


LIBRARY   OF   THE   UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA 


LIBRARY    OF   THE    UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA 


^m: 


UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA 


UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA 


UNIVERSITY   OF    CALIFORNIA 


/^^^% ^ 


LIBRARY   OF   THE   UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA 


LIBRARY   OF  THE    UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA 


LIBRARY    OF   THE    UNIVERSITY   OF    CALIFORNIA 


yrj)j\j\j\j\^ 


I  Wiruw:< 


LIBRARY    OF   THE    UNM 


LIBRARY    OF  THE    UNII 


FLOWERS 

FROM 

SUNLIGHT  AND  SHADE 


FLOWERS 

FROM 

SUNLIGHT    AND    SHADE 

POEMS  ARRANGED  AND  ILLUSTRATED 

BY 

SUSIE   BARSTOW   SKELDING 


AUTHOR    OF 


*^The  Flower-Sctgs    Series^^    '' Floruers  from   Hill  and  Dale,"   " Flowers  fr 
Glade  and  Garden,"  etc.,  etc. 


NEW  YORK 
FREDERICK   A.   STOKES   COMPANY 

MDCCCXCI 


Copyright,  i88>- 
B-E  WHITE,  STOKES,  &  ALLEN. 


?Nuio 

P  (oS(oip 


CONTENTS. 


Song,        .... 

{Bayard  Taylor.) 

Song,        .... 

{R.  H.   Stoddard.) 
The  Token, 

{yames  Russell  Lmveil. , 
A  Wild  Rose  in  Septembkr, 

{//.  H.) 

The  Spring  is  Late, 

{Louise  Chandler  Mcaillon.') 

From  A  Forest  Hymn,    . 

(  Willia7?i  Cullen  BryanL) 

Spring  Flowers, 

{The  Rev.  J.  Keble.) 
Hymn  for  Easter, 

{The  Rtv.  Henry    Ware, 
Selections  from  Heine, 

{Translated  by  Strathier.) 

The  Rose, 

{Facsimile  of  Manuscript  by  T  B.  Aldrich.) 


Jr.) 


page. 

15 
16 

17 
19 

25 

36 

27 
28 
29 

30 


i^358839 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

Caprice, 

.                     c                      .                      -                     •                     • 

35 

{W.  D.  Hmvdh.) 

Under  the  Rcses,  . 

«                 e                  •                  .                  »                  - 

•        38 

{Grace  Appleton.) 

Go,  Lovely  Rose,    . 

•                e                0                 e                 •                1 

40 

{E.    Waller.) 

A  Four-Leaved  Clover, 



45 

{Facsimile  of  Manuscripl  by  Mary  Bradley.) 

The  Forget-me-not, 

47 

{Anonymous.) 

Morning  Glory, 

• 

48 

{Louise  Chandler  Moulton.) 

The  Sign  of  the  Daisy, 

•                        »                        •                        a                        e                       a                       « 

55 

{H.  H.) 

Love's  Resume — Heine, 

•                       •                                                 e                         e                       a 

56 

( Translated  by  James 

Freeman  Clarke.) 

Buttercups  and  Daisies, 

57 

{Eliza  Cook.) 

*'  For  Thoughts,"     . 

0                                   A 

65 

{Celia   Thaxler.) 

Love's  Calendar,     . 

•                                   0                                    O 

(id 

{T.  B.  Aldrich.) 

The  Dial  of  Flowers, 

67 

{Mrs.  Hemans.) 

Bridges  and  Wings, 

. 

69 

{From  Exotics,   Translated  by  James  Freeman  Clarke.) 

CONTENTS. 


Ferns,      ....... 

{Eleanor  Henslow.) 
The  Moss  Rose,      ..... 

{From  the  German  of  Krummacher.) 
When  I  Send  Thee  a  Red,  Red  Rose, 

{From  Exotics,   Translated  by  L.  C.) 
Porget-me-not,  ..... 

{F.  Z.  Merritt.) 
Quotation,        ...... 

{Percival.^ 
Song, 

{Celia  Thaxter.) 
The  Blue  Color, 

{Translated  Oy  Robert  Buchanan.) 
Rococo,    ....... 

{T.  B.  Aldrich.) 
Violets,  ••.... 

{Frances  L.   Mace.) 
Selections  from  Heine, 

{Translated  by  Strathier.) 
Reading,  ....,, 

{Mary  Mapes  Dodge.) 
Under  the  Leaves,  .        .        ,         , 

{Albert  Leighton.) 
The  Lilies  of  the  Field, 

{Mrs.  Hemans.) 


PAGE. 

70 

75 
76 

77 
77 

78 

79 

80 

85 
86 

87 
88 
89 


CONTENTS. 


To  Daffodils, 

{R.  Herrick.) 

The  Daffodils, 

(  W.    Wordsworth. ) 

Easter  Morning,     . 

{^Frances  L.   Mace.') 

The  Rose  :  A  Ballad,    . 

{yames  Russell  Lowell.) 

Under  the  Rose,    . 

{R.  H.   Stoddard.) 

Romance, 

{T.  B.  Aldrich.) 

Field  Flowers, 

(Thomas  Campbell.) 

The  Garland, 

[Robert  Leighton.) 

Call  the  Vales, 

{John  Milton.) 

Wild  Flowers, 

[Robert  Nicoll.) 

Love  Comes,     . 

(Theodore   Winikrop.) 

Bring  Flowers, 

(Mrs.  Hemans.) 


PAGE. 

95 
96 

97 
105 
109 
no 

117 
118 
119 
125 
126 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Eglantine, 

Anemone,    ....... 

White  Roses  and  Pansies, 

Forget-me-nots  and  Four-Leaved  Clover, 

Daisies,  Buttercups  and  Bachelor's  Buttons, 

White  Pansies, 

Moss  Roses  and  Forget-me-nots, 

Violets,      ..... 

Daffodils  and  Narcissus, 
Yellow  Roses  and  Heliotrope, 

Hepatica, 

Pink  and  White  Clover,  . 


page. 
Frontispiece. 
23 
33 
43 
53 
63 
73 
83 
93 
103 

"3 

123 


The  editor  acknozvlcdges  the  courtesy  of  Messrs.  Houghton, 
Mifflin  &  Co.,  D.  Appleton  &  Co.,  y.  R.  Osgood  &  Co.,  Roberts 
Brothers  and  Henry  Holt  &  Co.,  in  granting  the  use  of  their 
publications,  for  poems  by  i)roininent  poetical  zvriters. 

She  also  recognizes  the  personal  kindness  of  Lo7iise  CJiand- 
ler  Monlto7i,  Mary  Mapes  Dodge,  Frances  L.  Mace,  Celia 
Thaxter,  arid  Mary  Bradley,  and  of  the  Messrs.  T.  B.  Aldrich, 
R.  H.  Stoddard,  James  Freeman  Clarke,  and  IV.  D.  Hozvells. 


EGLANTINE. 


13 


EONG. 

I  PLUCKED  for  thee  the  wildling  rose 

And  wore  it  on  my  breast, 
And  there,  till  daylight's  dusky  close, 

Its  silken  cheek  was  pressed  ; 
Its  desert  breath  was  sweeter  far 

Than  palace-rose  could  be, 
Sweeter  than  all  Earth's  blossoms  are, 

But  that  thou  gav'st  to  me. 

I  kissed  its  leaves,  in  fond  despite 

Of  lips  that  failed  my  own. 
And  Love  recalled  that  sacred  night 

His  blushing  flower  was  blown. 
I  vowed  no  rose  should  rival  m.ine, 

Though  withered  now,  and  pale, 
Till  those  are  plucked,  whose  white  buds  twine 

Above  thy  bridal  veil. 

— Bayard  Taylor, 


SONG. 

We  love  in  youth,  and  plight  our  vows 

To  love  till  life  departs  ; 
Forgetful  of  the  flight  of  time, 

The  change  of  loving  hearts. 

To-day  departs,  to-morrow  comes, 

Nor  finds  a  need  away  ; 
But  no  to-morrow  finds  a  man 

The  man  he  was  to-day. 

Then  weep  no  more  when  love  decays, 

For  even  hate  is  vain  ; 
Since  every  heart  that  hates  to-day, 

To-morrow  loves  again. 

~R.  H.  Stoddard. 


THE    TOKEN. 

It  is  a  mere  wild  rosebud, 

Quite  sallow  now,  and  dry. 
Yet  there's  something  wondrous  in  it 

Some  gleams  of  days  gone  by, 
Dear  sights  and  sounds  that  are  to  me 
The  very  moons  of  memory. 
And  stir  my  heart's  blood  far  below 
Its  short-lived  waves  of  joy  and  woe. 

Lips  must  fade  and  roses  wither, 

All  sweet  times  be  o'er ; 
They  only  smile,  and,  murmuring  "  Thither ! '^ 

Stay  with  us  no  more  : 
And  yet  ofttimes  a  look  or  smile, 
Forgotten  in  a  kiss's  while. 
Years  after  from  the  dark  will  start, 
And  flash  across  the  tremblino-  heart. 


THE    TOKEN. 

Thou  hast  given  me  many  roses, 

But  never  one,  hke  this, 
O'erfloods  both  sense  and  spirit 

With  such  a  deep,  wild  bhss  ; 
We  must  have  instincts  that  glean  up 
Sparse  drops  of  this  life  in  the  cup, 
Whose  taste  shall  give  us  ail  that  we 
Can  prove  of  immortality. 

Earth's  stablest  things  are  shadows, 

And,  in  the  life  to  come. 
Haply  some  chance-saved  trifle 

May  tell  of  this  old  home  : 
As  now  sometimes  we  seem  to  find, 
In  a  dark  crevice  of  the  mind, 
Some  relic,  which,  long  pondered  o'er. 
Hints  faintly  at  a  life  before. 

— James  Rzissell  Lowell, 


A   WILD    ROSE    IN    SEPTEMBER. 

O  WILD  red  rose,  what  spell  has  stayed 
Till  now  thy  summer  of  delights  ? 

Where  hid  the  south  wind  when  he  laid 
His  heart  on  thine,  these  autumn  nights  ? 

O  wild  red  rose !     Two  faces  elow 
At  sight  of  thee,  and  two  hearts  share 

All  thou  and  thy  south  wind  can  know 
Of  sunshine  in  this  autumn  air. 

O  sweet  wild  rose  !     O  strong  south  wind  ! 

The  sunny  roadside  asks  no  reasons 
Why  we  such  secret  summer  find. 

Forgetting  calendars  and  seasons  ! 

Alas  !  red  rose,  thy  petals  wilt ; 

Our  loving  hands  tend  thee  in  vain  : 
Our  thoughtless  touch  seems  like  a  guilt  ; 

Ah,  could  we  make  thee  live  again  ! 

Yet  joy,  wild  rose  !     Be  glad,  south  wind  ! 

Immortal  wind  !  immortal  rose  ! 
Ye  shall  live  on,  in  two  hearts  shrined, 

With  secrets  which  no  words  disclose. 

—77.  H, 


ANEMONSo 


21 


THE  SPRING  IS  LATE. 

She  stood  alone  amidst  the  April  fields, — 
Brown,  sodden  fields,  all  desolate  and  bare, — 

"The  Spring  is  late,"  she  said,  "  the  faithless  spring 
That  should  have  come  to  make  the  meadows  fair. 

"  Their  sweet  south  left  too  soon,  among  the  trees 
The  birds,  bewildered,  flutter  to  and  fro  ; 

For  them  no  green  boughs  wait,  their  memories 
Of  last  year's  April  had  deceived  them  so. 

"From  'neath  a  sheltering  pine  some  tender  buds 
Looked  out  and  saw  the  hollows  filled  with  snow; 

On  such  a  frozen  world  they  closed  their  eyes  ; 

When  spring  is  cold,  how  can  the  blossoms  blow  ?" 

She  watched  the  homeless  birds,  the  slow  sad  spring, 
The  barren  fields,  and  shivering  naked  trees; 

"Thus  God  hath  dealt  with  me,  his  child,"  she  said ; 
"  I  wait  my  spring  time,  and  am  cold  like  these. 


THE  SPRING  IS  LATE. 

"  To  them  will  come  the  fulness  of  their  time  ; 

Their  spring,  though  late,  will  make  the  meadows  fair, 
Shall  I,  who  wait  like  them  be  blessed  ? 

I  am  his  own, — doth  not  my  Father  care  ?" 

— Louise  Chandler  Moulton, 


FROM  A  FOREST  HYMN. 

That  delicate  forest  flower, 
With  scented  breath  and  look  so  like  a  smile, 
Seems,  as  it  issues  from  the  shapeless  mould, 
An  emanation  of  the  indwelling  Life, 
A  visible  token  of  the  upholding  Love, 
That  are  the  soul  of  this  great  universe. 

—  William  Cullen  Bryant 


SPRING  FLOWERS. 

The  loveliest  flowers  the  closest  cling  to  earth, 
And  they  feel  the  sun ;  so  violets  blue, 
So  the  soft  star-like  primrose  drench'd  in  dew  ; 

The  happiest  of  Spring's  happy,  fragrant  birth. 

To  gentlest  touches  sweetest  tones  reply. 

Still  humbleness  with  her  low-breathed  voice 

Can  steal  o'er  man's  proud  heart,  and  win  his  choice 

From  earth  to  heaven,  with  mightier  witchery 

Than  eloquence  or  wisdom  e'er  could  own. 

Bloom  on  then  in  your  shade,  contented  bloom. 

Sweet  flowers,  nor  deem  yourselves  to  all  unknown. 

Heaven  knows  you,  by  whose  gales  and  dews  ye  thrive. 
They  know,  who  one  day  for  their  alter'd  doom 

Shall  thank  you,  taught  by  you  to  abase  themselves  and 

live. 

—  TheRev.J.Keble. 


KYMN  FOR  EASTER. 

Lift  your  loud  voices  in  triumph  on  high, 
For  Jesus  hath  risen,  and  man  cannot  die! 
Vain  were  the  terrors  that  gathered  around  him, 

And  short  the  dominion  of  death  and  the  grave ; 
He  burst  from  the  fetters  of  darkness  that  bound  him, 

Resplendent  in  glory  to  live  and  to  save. 
Loud  was  the  chorus  of  angels  on  high, 
"The  Saviour  hath  risen,  and  man  shall  not  die!" 

Glory  to  God,  in  full  anthems  of  joy  ! 

The  being  he  gave  us  death  cannot  destroy ! 

Sad  were  the  life  we  must  part  with  to-morrow, 

If  tears  were  our  birthright,  and  death  were  our  end: 
But  Jesus  hath  cheered  the  dark  valley  of  sorrow, 

And  bade  us,  immortal,  to  heaven  ascend. 
Lift,  then,  your  voices  in  triumph  on  high, 
For  Jesus  hath  risen,  and  man  shall  not  die ! 

—  The  Rev,  He^iry  Ware,  Jr. 


XLIII. 

Upon  thy  cheeks  cloth  summer 

Its  rosy  flush  impart, 
While  icy  winter  Heth 

Within  thy  Httle  heart. 

But  soon  a  change  shall  follow, 

Thou  own  sweet  love  of  mine  ! 

Thy  cheeks  shall  harbour  winter, 
In  thy  heart  the  summer  shine. 

— H.  Heine, 

XXVII. 

The  purple  violets  of  her  eyes, 

Her  cheeks  where  roses  strew  their  dyes, 

Her  hand  that  with  the  lily  vies, 

These  ever  bloom,  and  'tis  alone 

The  little  heart  that  cold  hath  sffown. 

— H.  Heine, 


-^ 


i 


>:o^ 


f 


^ 


I   i 


(^ 


^ 


4 


C^ 


/ 

J 


^ 


J 


^ 


-f    ^        ^O 


WHITE  ROSES  AND  PANSIES. 


"V 


CAPRICE, 


She  hung  the  cage  at  the  window  ; 

"  If  he  goes  by,"  she  said, 
*'  He  will  hear  my  robin  singing, 

And  when  he  lifts  his  head, 
I  shall  be  sitting  here  to  sew, 
And  he  will  bow  to  me,  I  know." 

The  robin  sang  a  love-sweet  song, 
The  young  man  raised  his  head  ; 

The  maiden  turned  away  and  blushed 
"  I  am  a  fool  !  "  she  said. 

And  went  on  broidering  in  silk 

A  pink-eyed  rabbit,  white  as  milk. 


CAPRICE. 


The  young  man  loitered  slowly 

By  the  house  three  times  that  day ; 

She  took  her  bird  from  the  window  : 
"  He  need  not  look  this  way." 

She  sat  at  her  piano  long, 

And  sighed,  and  played  a  death-sad  song. 

But  when  the  day  was  done,  she  said, 
"  I  wish  that  he  would  come ! 

Remember,  Mary,  if  he  calls 
To-nio^ht — I'm  not  at  home." 

So  when  he  rang,  she  went — the  elf! — - 

She  went  and  let  him  in  herself. 


CAPRICE, 


in. 

They  sang  full  long  together 

Their  songs  love -sweet,  death-sad; 

The  robin  woke  from  his  slumber, 
And  rang  out,  clear  and  glad. 
"  Now  go  !  "  she  coldly  said  ;   "  't  is  late  ;  " 

And  followed  him — to  latch  the  gate. 

He  took  the  rosebud  from  her  hair. 
While,  "  You  shall  not !  "  she  said  ; 

He  closed  her  hand  within  his  own, 
And  while  her  tongue  forbade, 

Her  will  was  darkened  in  the  eclipse 

Of  blinding  love  upon  his  lips. 

—  W.  D.  Howeus. 


UNDER  THE  ROSES. 

Over  our  doorway  roses  twine  ; 

'Tis  a  humble  home,  but  half  divine — 

In  a  tangle  of  roses  and  eglantine ! 

Wee  little  windows  cannily  look, 
From  under  the  old  roof,  into  a  brook 
Frohcking  down  from  a  rocky  nook  ! 

"  Welcome,  darling  ! "  they  seem  to  say 
To  the  musical  streamlet  tripping  away 
Gleefully  down  thro'  the  meadow  hay  ! 

Or,  wistfully,  sometimes — "  prithee  stay  !" 
But  never  the  laughing  waves  delay — 
Tho'  ever  so  softly  echoing — "  ay  "  ! 

To  the  lean-to  roof  gray  lichens  cling; 
Over  it  great  elm  branches  fling 
Drowsy  shadows,  and  lazily  swing  ! 


UNDER   THE    ROSES.  39 

Singing  and  swinging,  to  and  fro, 
In  the  odorous  air  their  tassels  flow, 
Tenderly  over  the  cot  below  ! 

And  the  sills  are  velveted  o'er  with  moss — 
Soft  as  a  lady's  silken  floss — 
Thresholds  a  fairy  queen  might  cross  ! 

Hither  and  thither  the  robins  flit, 
Or  saucily  under  the  roses  sit — 
Asking  liberty — never  a  bit  ! 

Happy  as  ever  the  birds  are  we  ! 
Happy  as  never  the  birds  can  be — 
For  the  birds  can't  love  as  I  love  thee  I 

Under  the  roses  we  sit  and  dream, 

Till  sorrows  only  like  rose-leaves  seem — 

Floating  away  on  the  rippling  stream  1 

Grace  Appleton. 


40 


GO,    LOVELY   ROSE. 

Go,  lovely  Rose  ! 
Tell  her,  that  wastes  her  time  and  me,. 

That  now  she  knows, 
When  I  resemble  her  to  thee, 
How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be. 

Tell  her  that 's  young 
And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied, 

That  hadst  thou  sprung 
In  deserts,  where  no  men  abide, 
Thou  must  have  uncommended  died. 

Small  is  the  worth 
Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired  : 

Bid  her  come  forth. 
Suffer  herself  to  be  desired. 
And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 

Then  die  !  that  she 
That  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 

May  read  in  thee  : 
How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share 
That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair  ! 

— E.  Waller. 


FORGET-ME-NOTS     AND     FOUR-LEAVEB 

CLOVER. 


41 


<Pt^   ''J-ur}'^-^^^    (>>-<?L-<2ii-^-o  {'C->*.ou.^  f 


'^/2l^     oCfyiL-   7U!uo    U^    Q-n^/i^'^i'Ct-  C^iO-f—   — 


/^ayu-v-i^^i^    't-fuC^    Xl^rM-'i—   ')7^-rs>^  d'h-^^ 


THE    FORGET-ME-NOT. 

In  vain  I  search'cl  the  garden  through, 

In  vain  the  meadow  gay, 
For  some  sweet  flower  which  might  to  you 

A  kindly  thought  convey. 
One  spoke  too  much  of  hope  and  bloom. 
For  those  who  know  of  man  the  doom ; 
Another,  queen  of  the  parterre, 
Thorns  on  her  graceful  stem  did  bear ; 
A  third,  alas  !  seem'd  all  too  frail 
For  ruder  breath  than  Summ.er  gale. 

I  turn'd  me  thence  to  where,  beneath 

The  hedgerow's  verdant  shade, 
The  lowliest  gems  of  Flora's  wreath. 

Their  modest  charms  display'd  ; 
Lured  by  its  name,  one  simple  flower 
From  its  meek  sisterhood  I  bore, 
And  bade  it  hasten  to  impart 
The  breathings  of  a  faithful  heart, 
And  plead — "  Whate'er  your  future  lot. 
In  weal  or  woe — Forget-me-not." 

— A  nonynious. 


MORNING   GLORY. 

Earth's  awake,  'neath  the  laughing  skies, 
After  the  dewy  and  dreamy  night, — 

Riot  of  roses  and  babel  of  birds, 
All  the  world  in  a  whirl  of  delight. 

Roses  smile  in  their  white  content, 
Roses  blush  in  their  crimson  bliss, 

As  the  vagrant  breezes  wooing  them 
Ruffle  their  petals  with  careless  kiss. 

Yellow  butterflies  flutter  and  float, 

Jewelled  humming-birds  glitter  and  glow,: 

And,  scorning  the  ways  of  such  idle  things, 
Bees  flit  busily  to  and  fro. 

The  mocking-bird  swells  his  anxious  throat, 

Trying  to  be  ten  birds  in  one. 
And  the  swallow  twitters,  and  dives,  and  darts 

Into  the  azure  to  And  the  sun. 


MORNING    GLORY. 

But  robin  red-breast  builds  his  house 
Singing  a  song  of  the  joy  to  come, 

And  the  oriole  trims  his  golden  vest, 
Glad  to  be  back  in  his  last  year's  home. 

Lilies  that  sway  on  their  slender  stalks, 
Morning-glories  that  nod  to  the  breeze, 

Bloom  of  blossoms,  and  joy  of  birds, — 
What  in  the  world  is  better  than  these  ? 

— Louise  Chandler  Moulton. 


DAISIES,    BUTTERCUPS,  AND  BACH- 
ELOR'S BUTTONS. 


51 


THE  SIGN  OF  THE  DAISY. 

A.LL  summer  she  scattered  the  daisy  leaves ; 

They  only  mocked  her  as  they  fell. 
She  said  :  "  The  daisy  but  deceives  ; 

There  is  no  virtue  in  its  spell. 

'  He  loves  me  not,'  '  he  loves  me  well/ 

One  story  no  two  daisies  tell." 
Ah,  foolish  heart,  which  waits  and  grieves 

Under  the  daisy's  mocking  spell ! 

But  summer  departed,  and  came  again. 

The  daisies  whitened  every  hill; 
Her  heart  had  lost  its  last  year's  pain, 

Her  heart  of  love  had  had  its  fill. 

And  held  love's  secrets  at  its  will. 

The  daisies  stood  untouched  and  still, 
No  message  in  that  snowy  rain 

To  one  whose  heart  had  had  its  fill ! 


THE  SIGN  OF  THE  DAISY. 

So  never  the  daisy's  sweet  sign  deceives, 
Though  no  two  will  one  story  tell ; 

The  glad  heart  sees  the  daisy  leaves, 
But  thinks  not  of  their  hidden  spell, 
Heeds  not  which  lingered  and  which  fell. 
"  He  loves  me  ;  yes,  he  loves  me  well." 

Ah,  happy  heart  which  sees,  believes ! 
This  is  the  daisy's  secret  spell ! 


—H,  H, 


LOVE'S  RESUME. 

The  Sun,  the  Rose,  the  Lily,  the  Dove, — 
I  loved  them  all,  in  my  early  love. 
I  love  them  no  longer,  hut  her  alone. 
The  Pure,  the  Tender,  the  Only,  the  One. 
For  she  herself,  my  Queen  of  Love, 
Is  Rose,  and  Lily,  and  Sun,  and  Dove  ! 

— Heine. 
Translated  by  y antes  Freeman  Clarke, 


57 


BUTTERCUPS    AND    DAISIES. 

I  NEVER  see  a  young  hand  hold 
The  starry  bunch  of  white  and  gold 
But  something  warm  and  fresh  will  start 
About  the  region  of  my  heart. 
My  smile  expires  into  a  sigh, 
I  feel  a  struggling  in  the  eye, 
'Twixt  humid  drop  and  sparkling  ray, 
Till  rolling  tears  have  won  their  way ; 
For  soul  and  brain  will  travel  back 

Through  memory's  chequered  mazes 
To  days  when  I  but  trod  life's  track 

For  buttercups  and  daisies 

Tell  me,  ye  men  of  wisdom  rare. 
Of  sober  speech  and  silver  hair, 


58  BUTTERCUPS  AND  DAISIES. 

Who  carry  counsel,  wise  and  sage, 
With  all  the  gravity  of  age  ; 
Oh  !  say,  do  ye  not  ye  to  hear 
The  accents  ringing  in  your  ear, 
When  sportive  urchins  laugh  and  shout, 
Tossing  those  precious  flowers  about 
Springing  with  bold  and  gleesome  bound, 

Proclaiming  joy  that  crazes, 
And  chorusinor  the  macric  sound 

Of  buttercups  and  daisies  ? 

Are  there,  I  ask,  beneath  the  sky 
Blossoms  that  knit  so  strong  a  tie 
With  childhood's  love  ?     Can  any  please 
Or  light  the  infant  eye  like  these  ? 
No,  no  !  there's  not  a  bud  on  earth, 
Of  richest  tint  or  warmest  birth. 
Can  ever  fling  such  zeal  and  zest 
Into  the  tiny  hand  and  breast. 


BUTTERCUPS  AND  DAISIES.  59 

Who  does  not  recollect  the  hours 

When  burning  v/ords  and  praises 
Were  lavished  on  those  shining  flowers, 

Buttercups  and  daisies  ? 

There  seems  a  bright  and  fairy  spell 
About  their  very  names  to  dwell ; 
And  though  old  Time  has  marked  my  brow 
With  care  and  thought,  I  love  them  now. 
Smile,  if  ye  will,  but  some  heart-strings 
Are  closest  linked  to  simplest  things  ; 
And  these  wild  flowers  will  hold  mine  fast, 
Till  love,  and  life,  and  all  be  past. 
And  then  the  only  wish  I  have 

Is,  that  the  one  who  raises 
The  turf-sod  o'er  me,  plant  my  grave 

With  buttercups  and  daisies. 

Eliza  Cook, 


WHITE  PANSIES, 


61 


"  FOR   THOUGHTS." 

A  Pansy  on  his  breast  she  laid, 

Splendid,  and  dark  with  Tyrian  dyes ; 
"Take  it,  'tis  like  your  tender  eyes, 

Deep  as  the  midnight  heaven,"  she  said. 

The  rich  rose  mantling  in  her  cheek. 
Before  him  like  the  dawn  she  stood, 
Pausing  upon  Life's  height,  subdued. 

Yet  triumphing,  both  proud  and  meek. 

And  white  as  winter  stars,  intense 
With  steadfast  fire,  his  brilliant  face 
Bent  toward  her  with  an  eager  grace. 

Pale  with  a  rapture  half  suspense. 

"  You  give  me  then  a  thought,  O  Sweet  !  " 
He  cried,  and  kissed  the  purple  flower. 
And  bowed  by  Love's  resistless  power. 

Trembling  he  sank  before  her  feet. 

She  crowned  his  beautiful  bowed  head 
With  one  caress  of  her  white  hand  ; 
"  Rise  up,  my  flower  of  all  the  land. 

For  all  my  thoughts  are  yours,"  she  said. 

—  Cclia   TJiaxter 


LOVE'S    CALENDAR. 

The  Summer  comes  and  the  Summer  goes ; 
Wild-flowers  are  fringing  the  dusty  lanes, 
The  swallows  go  darting  through  fragrant  rains, 

Then,  all  of  a  sudden — it  snows. 

Dear  Heart,  our  lives  so  happil)^  flow, 
So  lightly  we  heed  the  flying  hours, 
We  only  know  Winter  is  gone — by  the  flowers, 

We  only  know  Winter  is  come — by  the  snow. 

—  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 


67 


THE    DIAL    OF    FLO\A^ERS. 

'TwAS  a  lovely  thought  to  mark  the  hours, 

As  they  floated  in  light  away, 
By  the  opening  and  the  folding  flowers 

That  laugh  to  the  summer's  day. 

Thus  had  each  moment  its  own  rich  hue, 

And  its  graceful  cup  and  bell, 
In  whose  colored  vase  might  sleep  the  dew. 

Like  a  pearl  in  an  ocean-shell. 

To  such  sweet  sio-ns  micrht  the  time  have  flow'd 

In  a  golden  current  on, 
Ere  from  the  garden,  man's  first  abode, 

The  glorious  guests  were  gone. 


68  THE  DIAL   OF  FLOWERS. 

So  might  the  days  have  been  brightly  told — 

Those  days  of  song  and  dreams — 
When  shepherds  gather'd  their  flocks  of  old 

By  the  blue  Acadian  streams. 

So  in  those  isles  of  delight,  that  rest 

Far  oft"  in  a  breezeless  main, 
Which  many  a  bark  with  a  weary  quest, 

Has  soup-ht,  but  still  in  vain. 

Yet  is  not  life,  in  its  real  flight, 

Mark'd  thus — even  thus — on  earth, 

By  the  closing  of  one  hope's  delight 
And  another's  gentle  birth  ? 

Oh  !  let  us  live,  so  that  flower  by  flower, 

Shutting  in  turn  may  leave 
A  lingering  still  for  the  sunset  hour, 

A  charm  for  the  shaded  eve. 

Mrs.  Hemans^ 


BRIDGES    AND   WINGS. 

Each  song  I  send  thee  is  a  bridge, 

Built  by  thy  happy  lover, — 
A  golden  bridge,  by  which  my  love 

To  thee,  sweet  child,  comes  over. 

And  all  my  dreams  have  angel-wings, 
Made  up  of  smiles  and  sighing  ; 

Lighter  tha.i  air,  on  which  my  love 
To  thee,  dear  heart,  comes  flying. 

■ — From  "Exotics."      Translated  by 

James  Freeman  Clarke, 


70 


FERNS. 

What  though  no  g-audy  hue  attract  the  eye, 
Endow'd  with  form  of  justest  symmetry, 
The  breeze  of  spring  no  lov'Her  thing  hath  fann'd, 
Than  the  Hght  foHage  of  the  feathery  band 
Of  ferns  ;   who  crowd  the  heath,  or  deep  recess 
Of  many  a  grove  and  tangled  wilderness, 
With  their  green  vases ;  form'd  to  vie  with  those 
Which  Grecian  art,  fond  and  exulting  chose 
To  crown  the  graceful  pillar  ; — and  to  me, 
Far-famed  Acanthus,  not  less  fair  than  thee 
(Such  as  I  know  thee,  sculptured  with  nice  hand), 
Rise  the  slight  fern-plants  of  my  native  land. 

Eleanor  Henslow. 


MOSS  ROSES  AND  FORGET-ME-NOTS. 


71 


^n^  '^a^  ^^,  ^  ^i^.^-  ^^^e^^-^^-^^ 


.^!ik^i-c-e^~ 


mm 


WHmmmmmmmsmmmmm 


^Z^^zUi.  ^^A  ^^      ^'^S-^. 


mmmmm 


m 


THE   MOSS    ROSE. 

The  Angel  of  the  flowers  one  day, 

Beneath  a  rose-tree  sleeping  lay  ; 

That  Spirit  to  whose  charge  'tis  given 

To  bathe  young  buds  in  dews  of  heaven  ;^ 

Awakening  from  his  light  repose, 

The  Angel  whispered  to  the  Rose  : 
"  O  fondest  object  of  my  care. 

Still  fairest  found,  where  all  are  fair  ; 

For  the  sweet  shade  thou  giv'st  to  me. 

Ask  what  thou  wilt,  'tis  granted  thee  !  " 

Then  said  the  Rose,  with  deepened  glow, 

"  On  me  another  grace  bestow." 
The  Spirit  paused  in  silent  thought,— 
What  grace  was  there  that  flower  had  not  ? 
'Twas  but  a  moment— o'er  the  Rose 
A  veil  of  moss  the  Angel  throws, 
And,  robed  in  nature's  simplest  weed, 
Could  there  a  flower  that  Rose  exceed  ? 

— From  the  German  of  Krummacher. 


When  I  send  thee  a  red,  red  rose, — 
The  sweetest  flower  on  earth  that  grows  f 

Think,  dear  heart,  how  I  love  thee ; 
Listen  to  what  the  sweet  rose  saith. 
With  her  crimson  leaf  and  her  fragrant  breath,— 
Love,  I  am  thine,  in  life  and  death  ! 

O  my  love,  dost  thou  love  me  ? 

— From  Exotics.      Trafislated  by  L.  C. 


FORGET-ME-NOT. 

Bring,  bring  me  wild  flowers  from  th'  enamell'd  fields, 
Green  woods  and  shady  lanes,  those  pleasant  places ; 
Where  many  a  gentle  flower  its  perfume  yields, 
The  sense  delighting  ; 
With  smiles  like  those  of  dear,  familial  faces, 
Fond  looks  requiting. 
And  oh !  be  sure,  ye  bring  me  this  : — 

The  love-link  'tis  of  pure  and  precious  thought, 
Memento  blest  of  love-engender'd  bliss. 
Balm  of  the  soul  : 
Yes,  bring  the  pale,  blue-eyed  Forget-me-not, 
To  bind  the  whole  ! 

—F.  L.  Merritt 

And  faith  that  a  thousand  ills  can  brave, 
Speaks  in  thy  blue  leaves,  Forget-me-not. 

-  -PerctvaL 


SONG. 

What  good  gift  can  I  bring  thee,  O  thou  dearest  ? 

All  joys  to  thee  belong; 
Thy  praise  from  loving  lips  all  day  thou  hearest, 

Sweeter  than  any  song. 
For  thee  the  sun  shines  and  the  earth  rejoices 

In  fragrance,  music,  light ; 
The  spring-time  wooes  thee  with  a  thousand  voices, 

For  thee  her  flowers  are  bright ; 
Youth  crowns  thee,  and  Love  waits  upon  thy  splendor, 

Trembling  beneath  thine  eyes  ; 
The  morning  sky  is  yet  serene  and  tender, 

Thy  life  before  thee  lies. 
What  shall  I  bring  thee,  O  thou  dearest,  fairest  ? 

Thou  boldest  in  thy  hand 
My  heart  as  lightly  as  the  rose  thou  wearest ; 

Nor  wilt  thou  understand 
Thou  art  my  sun,  my  rose,  my  day,  my  morrow. 

My  lady  proud  and  sweet ! 

I  bring  the  treasure  of  a  priceless  sorrow, 

To  lay  before  thy  feet. 

— Celia    Thaxter. 


79 


THE    BLUE    COLOR. 

1  LOVE  you  Heaven's  divinest  blue  ! 
The  light  I  cannot  reach  unto  ; 
With  earthly  joys  and  wishes,  I 
Remain  heart-laden  utterly. 

I  love  the  shadowy  blue  of  waves, 
That  whisper  in  the  sweet  sea-caves  ; 
But  earth  so  pleasant  is  to  me, 
I  would  not  sail  upon  the  sea. 

I  love  the  blue  of  yonder  plots, 
Where  blow  the  sweet  forget-me-nots  ; 
But  dare  not  pluck  them  from  their  bed, 
They  would  so  soon  be  vanished. 

The  blue  for  me — and  here  it  lies. 
Sweet-shining  in  my  true  love's  eyes, 
Where  flower's  blue,  heaven's  blue,  sea's  blue  shine. 
Mingled,  to  make  my  bliss  divine. 

Translated  by  Robert  Buchanan. 


ROCOCO. 

By  studying  my  lady's  eyes 

I've  grown  so  learned  day  by  day, 

So  Machiavelian  in  this  wise, 

That  when  I  send  her  flowers,  I  say 

To  each  small  flower  (no  matter  what,. 

Geranium,  pink,  or  tuberose, 
Syringa,  or  forget-me-not. 

Or  violet)  before  it  goes  : 

Be  not  triumphant,  little  flower. 

When  on  her  haughty  heart  you  lie. 
But  modestly  enjoy  your  hour  : 
She'll  weary  of  you  by  and  by." 

—  Thomas  Bailey  AldricK 


VIOLETS, 


£1 


VIOLETS. 

I  KNOW  a  spot  where  woods  are  greeOj, 

And  all  the  dim,  delicious  June 
A  brook  flows  fast  the  boughs  between 

And  trills  an  eager,  joyous  tune. 

In  clear  unbroken  melody 

The  brook  sings  and  the  birds  reply  : 
"  The  violets — the  violets  !  " 

Upon  the  water's  velvet  edge 

The  purple  blossoms  breathe  delight, 

Close  nestled  to  the  grassy  sedge 
As  sweet  as  dawn,  as  dark  as  night. 
O  brook  and  branches,  far  away. 
My  heart  keeps  time  with  you  to-day  ! 
"  The  violets — the  violets  !  " 

I  sometimes  dream  that  when  at  last 
My  life  is  done  with  fading  things, 
Again  will  blossom  forth  the  past 

To  which  my  memory  fondest  clings. 
That  some  fair  star  has  kept  for  me. 
Fresh  blooming  still  by  brook  and  tree, 
"  The  violets — the  violets  !  " 

— Frances  L.  Mace. 


XXXVII. 

Thou  seemest  like  a  flower, 

Pure,  sweet,  and  fair  to  be, 
And  as  I  gaze  a  sadness 

Steals  o'er  my  heart  for  thee. 

Methinks  my  hands  should  linger 

Upon  thy  head  in  prayer, 
That  God  may  ever  keep  thee 

Thus  pure,  and  sweet,  and  fair. 

— H.  Hehie. 


XL. 

Maiden  with  the  mouth  of  roses. 
And  that  eye  so  sweet  and  clear, 

Thou,  my  darling  little  maiden, 
In  my  thoughts  art  ever  here. 

— Heifie, 


READING. 

One  day  in  the  bloom  of  a  violet 

I  found  a  simple  word  ; 
And  my  heart  went  softly  humming  it, 

Till  the  violet  must  have  heard. 

And  deep  in  the  depth  of  a  crimson  rose 

A  writing  showed  so  plain, 
J  scanned  it  over  in  veriest  joy 

To  the  patter  of  summer  rain. 

And  then  from  the  grateful  mignonette 

I  read — ah,  such  a  thing  ! 
That  the  glad  tears  fell  on  it  like  dew, 

And  my  soul  was  ready  to  sing. 

A  few  little  words  !    Before  that  day 

I  never  had  taken  heed  ; 
But  oh,  how  I  blessed  the  love  that  came — ' 

The  love  that  taught  me  to  read ! 

— Mary  Mapes  Dodge. 


UNDER  THE  LEAVES. 

Oft  have  I  walked  these  woodland  paths^ 

Without  the  blest  foreknowing 
That  underneath  the  withered  leaves 

The  fairest  buds  were  growing. 

To-day  the  south-wind  sweeps  away 

The  types  of  autumn's  splendor, 
And  shows  the  sweet  arbutus  flowers, 

Spring's  children  pure  and  tender. 

O  prophet  flowers  !  with  lips  of  bloom. 

Outvying  in  your  beauty 
The  pearly  tints  of  ocean  shells, 

Ye  teach  me  faith  and  duty! 

"  Walk  life's  dark  ways,"  ye  seem  to  say, 
"  With  love's  divine  foreknowing, 
That  where  man  sees  but  withered  leaves, 
God  sees  sweet  flowers  growing." 

— Albert  Leigh  ton. 


THE  LILIES  OF  THE  FIELD. 

Flowers!  when  the  Saviour's  calm,  benignant  eye 
Fell  on  your  gentle  beauty — when  from  you 
That  heavenly  lesson  from  all  hearts  he  drew, 

Eternal,  universal  as  the  sky — 

Then,  in  the  bosom  of  your  purity, 
A  voice  He  set,  as  in  a  temple  shrine, 

That  life's  quick  travellers  ne'er  might  pass  you  by, 
Unwarn'd  of  that  sweet  oracle  divine. 

And  though  too  oft  its  low,  celestial  sound 

By  the  harsh  notes  of  work-day  Care  is  drown'd, 
And  the  loud  steps  of  vain  unlistening  Haste, 

Yet,  the  great  ocean  hath  no  tone  of  power 

Mightier  to  reach  the  soul,  in  thought's  hush'd  hour, 
Than  yours,  ye  Lilies !  chosen  thus  and  graced  1 

— Mrs.  Hemans. 


DAFFODILS  AND  NARCISSUS. 


m 


95 


TO    DAFFODILS. 

Fair  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 

You  haste  away  so  soon  ; 
As  yet  the  early  rising  Sun 

Has  not  attain'd  his  noon. 
Stay,  stay, 

Until  the  hasting-  day 
Has  run 

But  to  the  even-song  ; 
And,  having  pray'd  together,  we 

Will  go  with  you  along. 

We  have  short  time  to  stay,  as  you. 

We  have  as  short  a  Spring  ; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay 
As  you,  or  any  thing. 

We  die, 
As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 

Away 
Like  to  the  Summer's  rain  ; 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning's  dew 
Ne'er  to  be  found  as^ain. 

— R.  Herrick. 


96 


THE    DAFFODILS. 

I  wander'd  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 

When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host  of  golden  daffodils, 

Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees 

Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 
They  stretch'd  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a  bay  : 
Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced,  but  they 

Outdid  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee  : — 

A  Poet  could  not  but  be  gay 

In  such  a  jocund  company  ! 

I  crazed — and  o-azed — but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought  ; 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 

In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 

They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 

Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude  ; 

And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 

And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 

IV.  IVordswortk. 


EASTER    MORNING. 
I. 

OsTERA  !  spirit  of  spring-time, 

Awake  from  thy  slumbers  deep  ! 
Arise !  and  with  hands  that  are  glowing 

Put  off  the  white  garments  of  sleep ! 
Make  thyself  fair,  O  goddess  I 

In  new  and  resplendent  array, 
For  the  footsteps  of  Him  who  has  risen 

Shall  be  heard  in  the  dawn  of  day. 

Flushes  the  trailing  arbutus 

Low  under  the  forest  leaves — 
A  sign  that  the  drowsy  goddess 

The  breath  of  her  Lord  perceives. 
While  He  suffered,  her  pulse  beat  numbly^ 

While  He  slept,  she  was  still  with  pain ' 
But  now  He  awakes — He  has  risen — 

Her  beauty  shall  bloom  again. 


EASTER  MORNING. 

Oh,  hark  !  in  the  budding  woodlands 

Now  far,  now  near,  is  heard 
The  first  prelusive  warble 

Of  rivulet  and  of  bird. 
Oh  listen!  the  Jubilate 

From  every  bough  is  poured, 
And  earth  in  the  smile  of  spring-time 

Arises  to  greet  her  Lord ! 


II. 

Radiant  goddess  Aurora ! 

Open  the  chambers  of  dawn  ; 
Let  the  Hours  like  a  garland  of  graces 

Encircle  the  chariot  of  morn. 
Thou  dost  herald  no  longer  Apollo, 

The  god  of  the  sunbeam  and  lyre  ; 
The  pride  of  his  empire  is  ended. 

And  pale  is  his  armor  of  fire. 


From  a  loftier  height  than  Olympus 
Light  flows,  from  the  Temple  above, 

And  the  mists  of  old  legends  are  scattered 
In  the  dawn  of  the  Kino^dom  of  Love. 


EASTER  MORNING. 

Come  forth  from  the  cloud-land  of  fable, 
For  day  in  full  splendor  make  room — 

For  a  triumph  that  lost  not  its  glory 
As  it  passed  in  the  sepulchre's  gloom. 


She  comes  !  the  bright  goddess  of  morning, 

In  crimson  and  purple  array ; 
Far  down  on  the  hill-tops  she  tosses 

The  first  golden  lilies  of  day. 
On  mountains  her  sandals  are  glowing, 

O'er  the  valleys  she  speeds  on  the  wing, 
Till  the  earth  is  all  rosy  and  radiant 

For  the  feet  of  the  new-risen  King. 


III. 

Open  the  gates  of  the  Temple  ; 

Spread  branches  of  palm  and  of  bay ; 
Let  not  the  spirits  of  nature 

Alone  deck  the  Conqueror's  way. 
While  Spring  from  her  death-sleep  arises, 

And  joyous  His  presence  awaits, 
While  morning's  smile  lights  up  the  heavens, 

Open  the  Beautiful  Gates. 


EASTER  MORNING. 

He  is  here  !  the  long  watches  are  over, 

The  stone  from  the  grave  rolled  away ; 
"  We  shall  sleep"  was  the  sigh  of  the  midnight; 

"  We  shall  rise  ! "  is  the  song  of  to-day. 
O  Music  !  no  longer  lamenting, 

On  pinions  of  tremulous  flame, 
Go  soaring  to  meet  the  Beloved, 

And  swell  the  new  song  of  His  fame! 

The  altar  is  snowy  with  blossoms, 

The  font  is  a  vase  of  perfume, 
On  pillar  and  chancel  are  twining 

Fresh  garlands  of  eloquent  bloom. 
Christ  is  risen  !  with  glad  lips  we  utter, 

And  far  up  the  infinite  height 
Archangels  the  paean  re-echo, 

And  crown  Him  with  LiHes  of  Light! 


YELLOW  ROSES  AND   HELIOTROPE. 


101 


THE  ROSE  :  A  BALLAD. 

I. 

In  his  tower  sat  the  poet 

Gazing  on  the  roaring  sea, 
"  Take  this  rose,"  he  sighed,  "  and  throw  it 

Where  there's  none  that  loveth  me. 
On  the  rock  the  billow  bursteth 

And  sinks  back  into  the  seas, 
But  in  vain  my  spirit  thirsteth 

So  to  burst  and  be  at  ease. 
Take,  O  sea  !  the  tender  blossom 

That  hath  lain  against  my  breast ; 
On  thy  black  and  angry  bosom 

It  will  find  a  surer  rest. 
Life  is  vain  and  love  is  hollow, 

Ugly  death  stands  there  behind, 
Hate  and  scorn  and  hunger  follow 

Him  that  toileth  for  his  kind." 
Forth  into  the  night  he  hurled  it, 

And  with  bitter  smile  did  mark 


THE  ROSE:    A  BALLAE 

How  the  surly  tempest  whirled  it 
Swift  into  the  hungry  dark. 

Foam  and  spray  drive  back  to  leeward, 
And  the  gale,  with  dreary  moan, 

Drifts  the  helpless  blossom  seaward, 
Through  the  breakers  all  alone. 


II. 

Stands  a  maiden,  on  the  morrow. 

Musing  by  the  wave-beat  strand, 
Half  in  hope  and  half  in  sorrow, 

Tracing  words  upon  the  sand  : 
•*  Shall  I  ever  then  behold  him 

Who  hath  been  my  life  so  long, — 
Ever  to  this  sick  heart  fold  him, — 

Be  the  spirit  of  his  song  ? 
Touch  not,  sea,  the  blessed  letters 

I  have  traced  upon  thy  shore. 
Spare  his  name  whose  spirit  fetters 

Mine  with  love  forevermore  !" 
Swells  the  tide  and  overflows  it, 

But,  with  omen  pure  and  meet, 
Brings  a  little  rose,  and  throws  it 

Humbly  at  the  maiden's  feet. 


THE  ROSE:    A  BALLAD. 

Full  of  bliss  she  takes  the  token, 

And,  upon  the  snowy  breast, 
Soothes  the  ruffled  petals  broken 

With  the  ocean's  fierce  unrest. 
**  Love  is  thine,  O  heart!  and  surely 

Peace  shall  also  be  thine  own. 
For  the  heart  that  trusteth  purely 

Never  long  can  pine  alone." 


III. 


In  his  tower  sits  the  poet, 

Blisses  new  and  strange  to  him 
Fill  his  heart  and  overflow  it 

With  a  wonder  sweet  and  dim. 
Up  the  beach  the  ocean  slideth 

With  a  whisper  of  delight, 
And  the  moon  in  silence  glideth 

Through  the  peaceful  blue  of  night. 
Rippling  o'er  the  poet's  shoulder 

Flows  a  maiden's  golden  hair. 
Maiden  Hps,  with  love  grown  bolder, 

Kiss  the  moon-lit  forehead  bare. 
"  Life  is  joy,  and  love  is  power. 

Death  all  fetters  doth  unbind. 


THE  ROSEt    A  BALLAD. 

Strength  and  wisdom  only  flower 

When  we  toil  for  all  our  kind. 
Hope  is  truth, — the  future  giveth 

More  than  present  takes  away, 
And  the  soul  forever  liveth 

Nearer  God  from  day  to  day." 
Not  a  word  the  maiden  uttered, — 

Fullest  hearts  are  slow  to  speak, — 
But  a  withered  rose-leaf  fluttered 

Down  upon  the  poet's  cheek. 

— James  Russell  Lowell. 


UNDER  THE  ROSE. 

She  wears  a  rose  in  her  hair, 
At  the  twilight's  dreamy  close ; 

Her  face  is  fair,  how  fair  ! 
Under  the  rose. 

I  steal  like  a  shadow  there, 

As  she  sits  in  rapt  repose, 
And  whisper  my  loving  prayer 

Under  the  rose. 

She  takes  the  rose  from  her  hair, 
And  her  color  comes  and  goes, 

And  I — a  lover  will  dare 
Under  the  rose ! 

— Richard  Henry  Stoddard 


ROMANCE. 

I  have  placed  a  golden 

Ring  upon  tlie  hand 
Of  the  blithest  little 

Lady  in  the  land  ! 

When  the  early  roses 

Scent  the  sunn}^  air, 
She  shall  gather  white  ones 

To  tremble  in  her  hair  ! 

Hasten,  happy  roses, 

Come  to  me  by  IMay — 
In  your  folded  petals 

Lies  ni}'  wedding-day. 

—  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich, 


HEPATICA, 


FIELD    FLOWERS. 

Ye  field  flowers  !  the  gardens  eclipse  you,  'tis  true, 
Yet,  wildlings  of  Nature,  I  dote  upon  you, 

For  ye  waft  me  to  summers  of  old, 
When  the  earth  teemed  around  me  with  fairy  delight, 
And  when  daisies  and  buttercups  gladdened  my  sight, 

Like  treasures  of  silver  and  gold. 

I  love  you  for  lulling  me  back  into  dreams 

Of  the  blue  Highland  mountains  and  echoing  streams, 

And  of  birchen  glades  breathing  their  balm. 
While  the  deer  was  seen  glancing  in  sunshine  remote, 
And  the  deep  mellow  crush  of  the  wood-pigeon's  note 

Made  music  that  sweetened  the  calm. 

Not  a  pastoral  song  has  a  pleasanter  tune 

Than  ye  speak  to  my  heart,  litde  wildlings  of  June : 


125  FIELD  FLOWERS. 

Of  old  ruinous  castles  ye  tell, 
Where  I  thought  it  delightful  your  beauties  to  find, 
When  the  magic  of  nature  first  breathed  on  my  mind. 

And  your  blossoms  were  part  of  her  spell. 

Even  now  what  affections  the  violet  awakes  ; 
What  loved  little  islands,  twice  seen  in  their  lakes, 

Can  the  wild  water-lily  restore  ; 
What  landscapes  I  read  in  the  primrose's  looks. 
And  what  pictures  of  pebbled  and  minnowy  brooks, 

In  vetches  that  tangled  their  shore. 

Earth's  cultureless  buds,  to  my  heart  ye  were  dear, 
Ere  the  fever  of  passion,  or  ague  of  iear. 

Had  scathed  my  existence's  bloom ; 
Once  I  welcome  you  more,  in  life's  passionless  stage. 
With  the  visions  of  youth  to  revisit  my  age, 

\nd  I  wish  you  to  grow  on  my  tomb. 

Thomas  Campbeli^ 


ii; 


THE    GARLAND. 

No  cultivated  garden  did  he  own, 

But  found  his  bent  by  wayside  and  in  forest : 
He  gathered  flowers  where  seed  was  never  sown, 

Unless  by  Nature's  Florist. 

He  lacked  the  cultured  mind,  so  richly  prized, 
But  the  wastes  of  soul  found  endless  choosings, 

And  culled  a  garland,  not  to  be  despised. 
Of  transient  thoughts  and  musings. 

Robert  Leighton. 


"  Call  the  vales,  and  bid  them  hither  cast 
Their  bells,  and  flowrets  of  a  thousand  hues. 
Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whispers  use 
Of  shades,  and  wanton  winds,  and  gushing  brooks, 
On  whose  fresh  lap  the  swart-star  sparely  looks  ; 
Throw  hither  all  your  quaint  enamell'd  eyes. 
That  on  the  green  turf  suck  the  honied  showers, 
And  purple  all  the  ground  with  vernal  flowers. 
Bring  the  rathe  primrose  that  forsaken  dies, 
The  tufted  crow-toe,  and  pale  jessamine. 
The  white  pink,  and  the  pansy  freaked  with  jet, 
The  glowing  violet, 

The  musk-rose,  and  the  well-attired  woodbine. 
With  cowslips  wan  that  hang  the  pensive  head. 
And  every  flower," 

Milton. 


BRING    FLOV/ERS.  12/ 

Bring  flowers  to  the  captive's  lonely  cell  ; 
They  have  tales  of  the  joyous  woods  to  tell, 
Of  the  free  blue  streams  and  the  glowing  sky, 
And  the  bright  world  shut  from  his  languid  eye  ; 
They  will  bear  him  a  thought  of  the  sunny  hours 
And  the  dream  of   his  youth  ;  bring  him  flowers,  wild 
flowers. 


Brino-  flowers,  fresh  flowers,  for  the  bride  to  wear  ; 
They  were  born  to  blush  in  her  shining  hair. 
She  is  leaving  the  house  of  her  childhood's  mirth. 
She  hath  bid  farewell  to  her  father's  hearth. 
Her  place  is  now  by  another's  side — 
Brino-  flowers  for  the  locks  of  the  fair  young  bride. 


Bring  flowers,  pale  flowers,  o'er  the  bier  to  shed 

A  crown  for  the  brow  of  the  early  dead  ! 

For  this  through  its  leaves  hath  the  white  rose  burst, 

For  this  in  the  woods  was  the  violet  nursed  ; 

Though  they  smile  in  vain  for  what  once  was  ours, 

They  are  love's  last  gift ;  bring  ye  flowers,  pale  flowers. 


128  BRING    FLOWERS. 

Bring  flowers  to  the  shrine  where  we  kneel  in  prayer ; 
They  are  nature's  offering,  their  place  is  there ; 
They  speak  of  hope  to  the  fainting  heart, 
With  a  voice  of  promise  they  come  and  part ; 
They  sleep  in  dust  through  the  wintry  hours, 
They  break  forth  in  glory;  bring  flowers,  bright  flowers. 

— Mrs.  Hemans. 


w 


<^\ 


^:S>X. 


^n 


^^^V'r-;' 


^ 


H§.v"?£'>gti 


■/866:, 


UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA 


\ir 


LIBRARY    OF   THE    UNIVERSITY   OF    CALIFORNIA 


LIBRARY    OF   THE    UNP 


/f^ 


LD2 


^-rA-40m- 


(S2 


!700l) 


12/74 


xw 


/ft) 


,--?:TY:'g^... 


^ 


LIBRARY    OF   THE   UNI 


:^^;]^Jsi^ 


3 


LIBRARY   OF   THE    UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA 


LIBRARY    OF   THE    UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA 


LIBRARY   OF   THE    UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA 


Xh.§^ 


LIBRARY    OF   THE    UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA 


=    / 


LIBRARY   OF   THE    UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA 


LIBRARY    OF   THE    UNIVERSITY    OF    CALIFORNIA 


